A Fetching Shade Of Pain
by cyropi
Summary: It was a dream, everything in monochrome black and white, dark and light - except for his eyes. Like shards of shattered green glass; a fetching shade of pain.


**A Fetching Shade Of Pain**

**Disclaimer:** As soon as I locate the nearest genie and ask it to give me the rights to every major work of fiction ever written, I'll own Harry Potter. Until then, I don't. (My other two wishes will be for everyone to be given perfect empathy – no one will want to hurt anyone else anymore – and for a perfectly safe, easy method of instantaneous interstellar travel, with a view to spreading life to other habitable planets. But none of you care about that.)

**A/N:** This was one of the stories where the muses just grab you and force you to write. And where it comes out well, or so I hope. Unusual for me, in that it involves neither a romantic pairing or Draco and Hermione. It does, however, involve Draco, which means I haven't completely gone outside my usual scope. I like concentrating on one area; you get so much better at it…

But now is not the time for rambling, now is the time for allowing you to read the one-shot. Enjoy!

~*~

He had always liked the shadows.

Shadows concealed things, after all, and his very nature as a Slytherin lay in secrets, in things left unspoken, in ancient skeletons shrouded in dark closets. Sometimes _literal_ skeletons, but that mattered little. What mattered were the soft shadows, hiding everything, revealing no more than the briefest of glimmers to an enemy's eyes. Most people never looked to the shadows; they never looked beyond the light.

There was both light and shadow here, in the grey-stoned tower room, but he stood in the dark places where the moonlight didn't reach. The silvery light turned the stones pale, exposing every crack, every seam, every secret point of weakness. He could have seen them in a glance if he'd looked, but his attention wasn't focused on something as inconsequential as stone. He was focused on the boy sitting on the windowsill, bleached pale by the moonlight. His enemy. Harry Potter.

Potter was staring out at the grounds, the scar on his bone-white forehead standing out sharply in the revealing moonlight. He hadn't noticed Draco's presence in the room when he'd entered, not even glancing around to ensure he was alone. Careless! Especially for Perfect Potter, hero of the wizarding world – Voldemort had a price on his head that many would go to great lengths to collect. One in such danger should never be careless.

Draco had toyed with the idea of attacking him for a while, then decided against it. He was curious as to what Potter would want with the old tower, what purpose his visit here tonight could possibly serve. An illicit meeting, perhaps, with some secret lover? If it was, he could use it as blackmail. He'd like that, to have the Boy Who Lived squirming under his control. He smirked, leaning against the wall, watching his enemy with sharp silver eyes.

Potter was a study in light and shade, like a drawing done only with black ink. Black hair and robes, both shapeless masses of darkness; and his skin whitened by moonlight. He was leaning against the cold stone of the window frame, knees drawn to his chest, and staring out to where the near-full moon dominated the night sky. He made no movement, no sound but the steady rhythm of his breathing

Nothing happened for five minutes, and Draco tired of spying on a boy who merely sat and stared at the near-invisible stars. He wished he'd brought his wand – provoking Harry into a duel would have been more fun then standing and watching. Deciding that nothing was about to happen, he shifted slightly, intending to slip out silently – but as he moved, he noticed something. The moonlight betrayed it; shining off a thin silver line that ran down his cheek. The path of a tear.

Intrigued, Draco leant back against the wall. Potter crying? The idea was laughable. Potter was the _perfect_ one, after all. The Boy-Who-Lived – not just once, but five times now. The hero, praised and loved by every witch and wizard in the country as their saviour from the evils of the Dark Lord. Even more so, after the public announcement of Voldemort's return. 

And yet he was crying. Crying was a weakness; it revealed your secrets, cast light into your shadows and let everyone see the cracks in your stone walls, the flaws where you could be shattered into a thousand splinters.  Potter didn't have any such flaws, none that Draco knew of. Oh, he was a half-blood and a Gryffindor and consorted with Mudbloods and Weasleys, but those things were matters of politics, not personal happiness. Potter was wealthy, and talented, and powerful; surrounded by friends; practically worshipped by the wizarding world. That was why Draco hated him.

He frowned in the shadows and watched what the moonlight revealed. If he looked closely, he could see each tear as the moonlight made it shine silver, but Potter never allowed a sob to escape his lips, or a tremor to shake his body. Curious. That was a skill that could only be learnt, and Potter – _perfect _Potter – had it down to an art. Where had he learnt that? It meant he must have cried before. More than once.

Draco's eyes were caught by motion; Potter's hand was sliding into the pocket of his robes, pulling something out. With a note of surprise, Draco saw that it was a knife. The blade was covered in a simple black leather sheath, which wasn't quite long enough to cover the knife; an inch of metal reflected the moonlight. The handle, gripped firmly by Potter's pale hand, appeared ornately carved, decorative patterns picked out by silver wire in the dark wood. The sheath didn't match the blade, Draco realised; it belonged to some simpler knife.

That didn't explain what Potter wanted with a knife…

Slowly, Potter's pale hand slid the leather sheath from the blade, dropped it beside him on the windowsill, and Draco could see the way he stared at the knife. As though the sharp metal held the answer to a burning question, an answer he coveted, needed.

What was the question? And, perhaps more importantly at this point in time – _what was the answer?_

Draco, frowning in the shadows, could see Potter's determined expression, the way his hand trembled slightly as he turned the knife over, the way his breathing was fast and hard. No. This didn't make sense, was so illogical that Draco was half-convinced he was dreaming. Potter was a hero, loved by everyone, wanting for nothing. Draco remembered glancing to the Gryffindor table at dinner, seeing Potter and Weasley and the Mudblood laughing together, smiling like something out of a fairytale where nothing ever went wrong.

This was premeditated, if it was happening at all. The way Potter had chosen to come here tonight with the knife in his pocket – it wasn't on the spur of the moment, wasn't an irrational moment of madness. It was a _decision_.

What demons lurked in Potter's perfect life to make him decide on _this_?

Draco watched in fascinated horror as Potter brought the knife to his wrist, placing it parallel with the vein. His breathing was irregular, broken by half-strangled sobs as his shoulders shook. It was a dream, everything in monochrome black and white, dark and light - except for his eyes. Like shards of shattered green glass; a fetching shade of pain.

With a gasp wrenched from Potter's throat, the knife slipped on his wrist, a thin line of red blood welling to the cut. Not deep enough to kill, little more than a scratch, but it was that crimson marring of perfect flesh that startled Draco into action.

This wasn't a dream. This was _happening_.

Potter brought the blade to his wrist, steadying himself to slice again, but had no time to do so before Draco crossed the room swiftly, grabbed hold of Potter's wrist, and in a calm, even tone said, 'Put the knife down, Potter.'

The only thing that betrayed the fact that he wasn't calm was his death grip on Potter's wrist; he held it so tightly that his fingers ached in a second, so tightly that Potter gasped in pain before he had time for any other reaction. 

He looked up at Draco, eyes narrowed in anger and possibly pain. 'Let go,' he commanded, and his voice wasn't calm at all. It was weak, and shook as it spoke.

Draco, not knowing what else to do, merely tightened his grip and repeated himself. 'Put the knife _down_.'

'_No._' Potter tried to pull his wrist free of Draco's grip, but couldn't; the pale boy was holding too tightly. 'Damnit, Malfoy, let go!'

'And let you kill yourself?' Draco asked, sharply raising an eyebrow.

'Yes!' Potter tried, again unsuccessfully, to free the hand holding the knife.

'Even I have more morals than to stand back and watch someone kill themselves, Potter,' Draco retorted, his silvery eyes never leaving Potter's face, watching his reactions. Mainly anger, now, layered with the inexplicable pain. Where in Potter's near-perfect life could so much pain come from, enough to wish for death? Potter struggled against his grip, but Draco refused to let go, knowing that Potter would kill himself as soon as he did.

With an angry cry of rage that was more animal then human, Potter tried furiously to free the hand that held the knife, sinking the nails of his free hand into Draco's pale skin, trying to force him to let go. The pain shot up Draco's arm, sharp and demanding as the nails sliced his flesh, but he refused to give in. He wouldn't lose.

Defeated, Harry slumped back against the wall of the windowsill, his breathing harsh and irregular, his eyes dark and unreadable. 'Let go,' he pleaded, raising his chin – the moonlight caught the tearstains on his face. 'Let me do this!'

Draco didn't reply for a moment, watching his enemy, trying to second-guess his motives. Potter didn't _have_ any motives for death. He had friends and admirers everywhere he went; he was powerful, talented. Draco felt an uprising of scorn. How could someone be so weak as to take this way out of a problem? Death was easy, the cheat's way to escape, the copout. Especially when you were a _hero_, like Potter.

'You're weak.' Draco said, barely realising he was saying it. '_Weak_.'

The look Harry gave him was the look of someone who had lived in Hell for a year, someone who had been hurt beyond the imagination of mortal minds and survived. Draco had seen the look once before – in the eyes of Death Eaters rescued from Azkaban after many years – and it chilled him to the bone. Potter had never suffered like that.

'I am not weak,' Potter said in a low, hard tone, simmering of anger contained by an even, slightly shaking voice. 'You don't have a _clue_ about me, Malfoy…'

'I _know_ you're weak,' Draco said, a smirk coming easily to his lips. 'Only weaklings try _suicide_ as an answer to their problems. What's wrong, anyway? Why are you doing this? You've always been _perfect_ Potter, winning the House Cup year after year, beating everyone in Quidditch, saving the world…'

Potter was shaking again, but from anger this time. His free hand curled tight into a fist, the other still clutching the knife tightly, refusing to let it go. 'You have _no_ idea…' he hissed, 'no idea _at all_…'

Draco didn't stop. 'You're selfish,' he accused. 'You're meant to be saving the world again, remember? You've only defeated Voldemort five times, after all, only have half the population of the wizarding world practically worshipping at your feet! You've got friends, Potter, real friends, did you ever think that not everyone has the luxury of people who actually _care_? Did you ever think what you're doing to them?'

'Shut up, Malfoy, just shut up!'

'Your precious godfather died, didn't he, Potter? So you know what it's like. And you still want to hurt your friends like that?' Draco glared at the furious Potter. 'You're _selfish_,' he hissed.

'Don't say that!' Potter shouted, swinging his free fist round to connect with the side of Draco's head in a mind-shattering blow that left him reeling. Potter's wrist came free, and Draco snapped to himself, pain searing the inside of his skull, to see the knife's point flying sharply towards him. Instinctively he ducked the weapon and swung his hand up to hit Potter's wrist, knocking the blade from his hand to fly across the room, flashing in the moonlight before it skidded into the shadows.

There was no time to pause. Potter, enraged, brought his fist round again, striking wildly for his gut, but Draco dodged it. He didn't have his wand, but neither did Potter, so there at least they were equal. Draco swung round, aiming a kick to Potter's side, feeling the satisfying connection with his flesh, the gasp of pain – repayment for the slice of agony in his own head.

'Is poor little Potter angry? Poor little Potter, with his perfect life and his fame and his friends…' Draco mocked, regaining his balance from the kick. Potter glared up at him, one hand pressed to his side in pain, and without warning attacked again. With the lightening reflexes of a Seeker, he grabbed Draco's ankle, pulling his leg out from under him. Draco crashed forwards painfully to the floor, the wind momentarily knocked out of him by the hard impact of his breastbone on the stone.

He gasped in air as soon as he could breathe. Potter was still attacking, animalistic in his fury, and Draco saw Potter's fist rushing down to impact with his back. He twisted sideways quickly, the fist hitting stone only centimetres away from him, and he saw with satisfaction the blood on Potter's knuckles.

He didn't escape the next fist so fast, however, and pain exploded in his side as Potter's punch connected with his ribs. He gasped in air, pain clouding his vision, and hoped Potter hadn't just damaged something vital.

'You have a clue what my life is like!' Potter accused him savagely, punctuating this with another vicious punch that left Draco reeling. His voice was cracked, more shriek than speech. 'You haven't a clue what I've been through, what it's like to have to keep fighting Voldemort! 

Another punch, the anger more generalised now and Draco just the luckless punchbag. He struggled to get away, but couldn't; the pain was too sharp. 'Don't you dare say anything about me! You don't know how it feels, knowing your friends are in danger because of you, knowing people have died because of you…' 

Another punch, and a cracked sob.

_Diggory and his godfather_, Draco thought dimly. So Potter feels responsible? Pulling himself together, he blocked the pain and twisted his head to meet Potter's gaze, angry and painful. Another punch thudded down; he ignored it. In a voice that was perhaps more harsh than it should have been, Draco spoke.

'Potter, do you _want_ another person dead because of you?'

It took a moment for his words to take full effect. When they did, Harry jerked backwards as though Draco had slapped him, face rapidly paling to the exact shade of the moonlight. Draco took those precious seconds while Potter was still gaping in shock to assess how badly he was injured. Thankfully, the pain seemed to be receding, which indicated that he probably hadn't got anything worse than bruises.

He pushed himself upright, sitting up and leaning against the wall, despite the protests of his body which clamoured that he should let it lie still. Directly opposite to Draco, Potter had sunk to the floor, staring at him with the distant look of shock. This did absolutely nothing in the way of moving Draco to any kind of pity for the boy who'd just attacked him.

'I almost…' Potter stared at his hand, at the bleeding knuckles where he'd accidentally punched the floor. 'I almost…'

Draco gave him a look of scorn. 'You attacked me because I stopped you killing yourself,' he spat. 'Really clever idea, Potter. I should've let you do it.'

'You should.' Potter closed his eyes, leaning back against the stone, shaking slightly. He was in the direct line of the moonlight, and as the moon picked out in perfect clarity every detail of his small, rather crumpled form, it suddenly struck Draco that he looked simultaneously very young, childlike, but also frighteningly old. 'I want to die.'

His words were barely a whisper on the cool night air, but they made Draco's bones grow suddenly cold. Something in the way he said it, something in his tone… Ignoring it, he turned his foulest glare on Potter. Draco's head still ached from that rage-powered first punch. 'You can't die yet, Potter, remember, you've got to save the world from the Dark Lord first so everyone can _worship_ you,' he sneered. 'Always the Golden Boy, aren't you, Potter? Saving the world, defeating the Dark Lord, its all in a day's work for a _hero_…'

Potter was staring at him as if he was mad. 'You think I like this?' he asked incredulously, anger returning to tint his voice. 'You think this is easy, that it's 'all in a day's work' or whatever other ridiculous idea you want to come up with? Malfoy, this is _Voldemort_! You think I like having every bloody witch and wizard in this world looking to me to save them, expecting me to save them just because I'm the Boy-Who-Lived or whatever other stupid nickname they want to give me?'

'Potter…' Draco cut in, trying to stop him, but Potter kept on going, his voice rising.

'Do you think I _like_ having Voldemort constantly trying to kill me? Do you think I _like_ it when he tries to attack my mind, when I can't think because my scar's _burning_? Do you think I like knowing that Cedric and Sirius died because of me? Do you think I like that guilt on my conscience? Or being terrified because I don't know who it'll be next, whether it'll be Ron or Hermione, Dean or Seamus or Ginny or Neville or…'

His breath ran out, and with it his anger; he gave a little choked sob and was still, curling his arms around his knees and hugging them to his chest tightly. Draco watched as his enemy fought back tears, and realised in that moment just how much of a fool he'd been. 

He knew how terrifying Voldemort was, how much danger Potter must have been in, but everyone acted like Harry was some superhuman hero who'd save them all. They always had done. The Daily Prophet even called him that, 'the saviour of the wizarding world', and when he was spoken of among the younger years it was with hushed and reverent tones, as though Potter was some kind of demigod. Not among the Slytherins, of course, but everyone else thought that way. 

And even Draco had come to think of him as something not-human, a stereotypical knight in shining armour on a rescue mission - not a _person_ at all. Even from the dragon's point of view, he'd looked superhuman, not touched by mortal fears or guilts or miseries…

_Now_ Harry was human, as his impassioned rant gave way to soft crying. He tried to hide the tears, of course – and Draco remembered wondering, earlier, where he'd learnt to suppress the sobs and shaking; now he realised that he must have cried before, many times before. But even control couldn't hold in the tears for too long, and after about a minute of struggling he gave in and cried openly. Draco watched in a detached manner. Before he would have taunted Harry, but not now. Now he could merely wait, patiently, for Harry's control to return.

And perhaps say something. 'Your friends would be hurt more if you killed yourself than they would if Voldemort attacked them,' he pointed out, carefully speaking loudly enough that his voice would carry over Harry's tears. 'You know that. Stop being so _selfish_, Potter.'

Enemies did not offer their enemies comfort, after all. Draco watched and waited, as the sounds of Harry's soft, broken, aching sobs echoed around the tower.

Draco didn't know how long he sat there, staring at a meaningless patch of shadowed stone, before Harry's tears dried. After that there was another long pause, while Harry sat there, without moving, without looking up, completely silent. There was something in the air that made Draco want to stay, something being forged in the silence of their own thoughts. Not wanting to consider precisely what this might be, Draco told himself that he stayed because Harry might attempt suicide again.

Perhaps half an hour had passed when Harry stood, slightly shaky, wincing in pain from the earlier fight. Slowly, he walked to that dark, shadow-wreathed corner where the knife had fallen, picked it up. Draco watched him. He wouldn't try anything; knew perfectly well that Draco could stop him in a moment if he did.

Instead, he held the blade up to the moonlight, then crossed to the window, opened it, and threw the knife as hard as he could out onto the grounds.

It was a perfect action, Draco thought as Harry closed the window and stood back, falling into the shadows. It said everything that needed to be said without words, made promises and statements and subtle thanks in the masked, unspoken, shadowy way Draco loved so much.

Harry left without looking back. A short time later, Draco followed, leaving the moonlight and the darkness behind to remember what had happened.

~*~

**A/N:** Now then. The muses made me write this, and I'm sure they'd like some feedback for their efforts at inspiring people. Just think, if you don't, they could get mad at you and refuse to inspire you… writer's block! Quickly, hit the review button!


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